


Fan

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27413395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Simon sees the neighbour’s hottie.
Relationships: Markus/Simon (Detroit: Become Human)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 46





	Fan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [disterra (mutantrentboy)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mutantrentboy/gifts).



> A/N: Disterra drew [amazing, inspiring fanart](https://disterra.tumblr.com/post/624411148199100416/sometime-back-i-read-yeakas-short-fic-where-simon) and now this is fanfic of fanart of fanfic. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It isn’t quite sunny anymore when Simon goes out—grey clouds have curled up around the sky and thrum with warning, a seventy-eight percent chance of rain. All the humans on the street have flittered back indoors, because no one likes getting wet, but Simon’s technically _no one._ He was busy scrubbing the kitchen floor through most of the pleasant parts of the day, and now he’s finally finished, and the yard work is next regardless of the weather. He passes the hangers packed full of coats on his way out. None of them are for him. In just his usual white uniform, he strolls into the garden. 

The clippers are resting on the edge of a low flower pot, currently empty—he’s to plant roses tomorrow. Today, he needs to trim the hedge. It stands tall between the house he came from and the one next door, crisp and neat but likely less neat on his side than the neighbour’s. 

The neighbour’s android is _perfect_ , and Simon’s quite sure their garden is perfection. Everything he can see certainly is. A few stray leaves litter the grass, but that grass is cut utterly even, all the flowers rich and full, the low fountain that cuts through half the lawn crystal clear. Simon snips off the first too-long leaf, and the neighbour’s android rounds the corner. 

Simon instantly freezes. It’s like he’s been hacked, controlled, suddenly a puppet to someone else’s _feelings_ , because he knows they can’t be his own. _He doesn’t have any._ He’s only a machine, a tool, and he stops working as Markus trails around the side of his house and collects a rake. 

_Markus_. Simon’s heard the neighbours call for him more than once—a kindly old painter and a bitter younger man. Markus always answers sweetly, sometimes even colloquially, voice smooth as honey. Every once in a while, there’s that extra little lilt in it that Simon can’t place—a modulation beyond android comprehension. He already knows Markus is advanced, so much more than him, a model clearly meant for all kinds of important work and not such menial tasks. It seems wrong that he should be outside, simply raking leaves, when he’s capable of such great things. He’s above this. And Simon could maybe fix that, could call Markus over and offer to do the housework for him. But Simon doesn’t know where to start. 

He can’t start. He’s _property_ , after all, and can’t cross the property line. And he’s only an average PL600, while Markus seems so unique, probably a prototype, the most gorgeous prototype ever made—the sort of model that any Man would drool over. Simon doesn’t think that particular line of thought is so damning, because of course Markus is attractive; he’s _objectively_ handsome. Anything with any optical sensors would know that. Watching him work feels like an honour, because Simon can see his thick plating and crisp joints flex with every movement as he methodically tidies the far side of the pool. 

Finished with one small pile of green-brown leaves, Markus trails closer, and then it happens—he looks over, and suddenly Simon’s staring into bright green eyes and forgetting all his protocols. 

Markus smiles. It’s a small, subtle thing, so _natural_ , because Markus is the most natural thing in the world, and he makes it all look so easy. He lifts his hand and actually waves, like Simon’s someone worth seeing—like Simon’s _someone_ at all. Simon commands his arm to lift, but his circuits must have shorted out, because he doesn’t move. He can’t. He looks at Markus, and his program whirrs into overdrive, conjuring thoughts and images beyond his capacity—what it would be like if Markus came a little closer and showed Simon how to be like that. How it would be to hold _a conversation_ with Markus, to really _get to know him_ , to touch his soft skin and savour it—to _kiss him_ , because surely Markus can do that, can do _anything_ Simon’s seen humans manage, only Markus would do it _better_.

“Are you alright?”

Not ‘are you malfunctioning?’ _Is he alright._ It feels like something’s gotten into the cavity of Simon’s throat and blocked his vocal box. But he answers, “I’m fine. Just a basic model that... occasionally overloads.” It’s not entirely a lie. Markus dons a quiet frown that somehow looks concerned. 

Markus moves closer. Only an arm’s length away, kept apart by foliage, he says, “Carl sleeps quite a bit these days.” Carl Manfred, Simon knows, is the man in the wheelchair, the one who often paints in the studio, who looks at Markus with such fondness and inspires smiles back. Simon doesn’t understand the relevance of the human’s sleep patterns but listens intently anyway. “I have ‘spare time’ during those intervals, as he puts it. If you like, I can come over and help with your work.”

Simon’s brain is definitely short-circuiting. It races to keep up, but no amount of processing power can explain what’s happening. Even the way Markus phrases it, like Simon is a man with a home and a career, instead of a tool with chores to do, has an impact on Simon’s program. Everything about Markus does. The thought of Markus trailing him around, helping him wash the dishes and sweep the floor, is so painfully delightful, and yet the opposite of what he wanted. He feels like he should be the one helping Markus. Markus is the one growing more complex every day. The one who will soon be creating art like his master. The one who occupies Simon’s thoughts every split-second that a pre-programmed order isn’t. Simon opens his mouth, different answers still dueling.

Finally, he says, “That’s alright. But thank you. I appreciate the offer.”

Markus gives him a tight smile and nods. “Any time.” Like it’s that easy. Like Simon could call his name, and he’d come running. 

He turns back towards the garden and returns to the leaves. The way he works in his black shirt, it’s hard to believe he’s an android. But then, no human could be so perfect. 

Simon is terribly flawed. He puts down the clippers and retreats, reorganizing his schedule to trim the hedge later. He’ll start on dinner now, open the fridge wide, and stand in front of it until his sizzling circuits cool down and he’s no longer in danger of breaking through the red wall that keeps him from Markus’ open arms.


End file.
